Macey, in deep disgust at the farrier's crass
imcompetence to apprehend the conditions of ghostly phenomena.
imcompetence to apprehend the conditions of ghostly phenomena.
Warner - World's Best Literature - v09 - Dra to Eme
And as for the cow's being Mr.
Lammeter's, I say
nothing to that; but this I say, as the Rainbow's the Rainbow.
And for the matter o' that, if the talk is to be o' the Lammeters,
you know the most upo' that head, eh, Mr. Macey? You remem-
ber when first Mr. Lammeter's father come into these parts, and
took the Warrens ? »
Mr. Macey, tailor and parish clerk, the latter of which func-
tions rheumatism had of late obliged him to share with a small-
featured young man who sat opposite him, held his white head
on one side, and twirled his thumbs with an air of complacency,
slightly seasoned with criticism. He smiled pityingly in answer
to the landlord's appeal, and said:
"Ay, ay; I know, I know; but I let other folks talk. I've laid
by now, and gev up to the young uns. Ask them as have been
to school at Tarley; they've learned pernouncing; that's come up
since my day. ”
"If you're pointing at me, Mr. Macey,” said the deputy clerk,
with an air of anxious propriety, "I'm nowise a man to speak out
of my place. As the psalm says:
«< I know what's right; nor only so,
But also practice what I know. ) »
“Well, then, I wish you'd keep hold o' the tune when it's set
for you; if you're for practicing I wish you'd practice that,” said a
large jocose-looking man, an excellent wheelwright in his week-
day capacity, but on Sundays leader of the choir. He winked, as
he spoke, at two of the company who were known officially as
“the bassoon” and “the key bugle,” in the confidence that he was
expressing the sense of the musical profession in Raveloe.
Mr. Tookey the deputy clerk, who shared the unpopularity
common to deputies, turned very red, but replied with careful
moderation :-"Mr. Winthrop, if you'll bring me any proof as I'm
in the wrong, I'm not the man to say I won't alter. But there's
people set up their own ears for a standard, and expect the
whole choir to follow 'em. There may be two opinions, I hope. ”
“Ay, ay,” said Mr. Macey, who felt very well satisfied with
this attack on youthful presumption; "you're right there, Tookey:
there's allays two 'pinions; there's the 'pinion a man has of him-
sen, and there's the 'pinion other folks have on him. There'd
be two 'pinions about a cracked bell, if the bell could hear
itself. ”
## p. 5385 (#561) ###########################################
GEORGE ELIOT
5385
It's your
“Well, Mr. Macey,” said poor Tookey, serious amidst the
general laughter, “I undertook to partially fill up the office of
parish clerk by Mr. Crackenthorp's desire, whenever your infirm-
ities should make you unfitting; and it's one of the rights
thereof to sing in the choir - else why have you done the same
yourself? ”
“Ah! but the old gentleman and you are two folks,” said
Ben Winthrop. "The old gentleman's got a gift. Why, the
Squire used to invite him to take a glass, only to hear him sing
the Red Rovier'; didn't he, Mr. Macey? It's a nat'ral gift.
There's my little lad Aaron, he's got a gift — he can sing a tune
off straight, like a throstle. But as for you, Master Tookey,
you'd better stick to your Amens': your voice is well enough
when you keep it up
in
your nose.
inside as isn't
right made for music: it's no better nor a hollow stalk. ”
This kind of unflinching frankness was the most piquant
form of joke to the company at the Rainbow, and Ben Win-
throp's insult was felt by everybody to have capped Mr. Macey's
epigram.
"I see what it is plain enough,” said Mr. Tookey, unable to
keep cool any longer. “There's a consperacy to turn me out o'
the choir, as I shouldn't share the Christmas money that's
where it is. But I shall speak to Mr. Crackenthorp; I'll not be
put upon by no man. "
"Nay, nay, Tookey,” said Ben Winthrop.
« We'll pay you
your share to keep out of it -- that's what we'll do. There's
things folks 'ud pay to be rid on, besides varmin. ”
“Come, come,” said the landlord, who felt that paying people
for their absence was a principle dangerous to society; "a joke's
a joke. We're all good friends here, I hope. We must give and
take. You're both right and you're both wrong, as I say. I
agree wi' Mr. Macey here, as there's two opinions; and if mine
was asked, I should say they're both right. Tookey's right and
Winthrop's right, and they've only got to split the difference
and make themselves even. ”
The farrier was puffing his pipe rather fiercely, in some con-
tempt at this trivial discussion. He had no ear for music himself,
and never went to church, as being of the medical profession, and
likely to be in requisition for delicate cows. But the butcher,
having music in his soul, had listened with a divided desire, for
Tookey's defeat and for the preservation of the peace.
## p. 5386 (#562) ###########################################
5386
GEORGE ELIOT
"To be sure,” he said, following up the landlord's conciliatory
view, we're fond of our old clerk; it's nat'ral, and him used
to be such a singer, and got a brother as is known for the first
fiddler in this country-side. Eh, it's a pity but what Solomon
lived in our village, and could give us a tune when he liked, eh,
Mr. Macey? I'd keep him in liver and lights for nothing - that
I would. ”
“Ay, ay,” said Mr. Macey, in the height of complacency;
our family's been known for musicianers as far back as any-
body can tell. But them things are dying out, as I tell Solomon
every time he comes round; there's no voices like what there
used to be, and there's nobody remembers what we remember, if
it ain't the old crows. "
“Ay, you remember when first Mr. Lammeter's father came
into these parts, don't you, Mr. Macey? " said the landlord.
"I should think I did,” said the old man, who had now gone
through that complimentary process necessary to bring him up
to the point of narration; "and a fine old gentleman he was- as
fine and finer nor the Mr. Lammeter as now is. He came from
a bit north'ard, so far as I could ever make out. But there's
nobody rightly knows about those parts; only it couldn't be far
north'ard, nor much different from this country, for he brought a
fine breed o' sheep with him, so there must be pastures there, and
everything reasonable. We heard tell as he'd sold his own land
to come and take the Warrens, and that seemed odd for a man as
had land of his own, to come and rent a farm in a strange place.
But they said it was along of his wife's dying; though there's
reasons in things as nobody knows on — that's pretty much what
I've made out; though some folks are so wise that they'll find
you fifty reasons straight off, and all the while the real reason's
winking at 'em in the corner, and they niver see't. Howsom-
ever, it was soon as we'd got a new parish'ner as know'd
the rights and customs o' things, and kep a good house, and was
well looked on by everybody. And the young man — that's the
Mr. Lammeter as now is, for he'd niver a sister - soon begun to
court Miss Osgood, that's the sister o' the Mr. Osgood as now is,
and a fine handsome lass she was - eh, you can't think — they
pretend this young lass is like her, but that's the way wi' people
as don't know what come before 'em. I should know, for I helped
the old rector, Mr. Drumlow as was, I helped him marry
'em. ”
seen
## p. 5387 (#563) ###########################################
GEORGE ELIOT
5387
Here Mr. Macey paused; he always gave his narrative in in-
stallments, expecting to be questioned according to precedent.
“Ay, and a partic'lar thing happened, didn't it, Mr. Macey,
so as you were likely to remember that marriage ? ” said the
landlord, in a congratulatory tone.
"I should think there did - a very partic'lar thing,” said Mr.
Macey, nodding sideways. “For Mr. Drumlow poor old gen-
tleman, I was fond on him, though he'd got a bit confused in
his head, what wi' age and wi' taking a drop o' summat warm
when the service come of a cold morning; and young Mr.
Lammeter he'd have no way but he must be married in Jani-
wary, which, to be sure, 's a unreasonable time to be married in,
for it isn't like a christening or a burying, as you can't help;
and so Mr. Drumlow — poor old gentleman, I was fond on him;
but when he come to put the questions, he put 'em by the rule
o' contrairy like, and he says, Wilt thou have this man to thy
wedded wife ? ' says he, and then he says, Wilt thou have this
woman to thy wedded husband ? ' says he. But the partic’larest
thing of all is, as nobody took any notice on it but me, and
they answered straight off Yes,' like as if it had been me saying
Amen' i' the right place, without listening to what went before. ”
“But you knew what was going on well enough, didn't you,
Mr. Macey? You were live enough, eh ? ” said the butcher.
"Lor bless you! ” said Mr. Macey, pausing, and smiling in
pity at the impotence of his hearers' imagination, -"why, I was
all of a tremble: it was as if I'd been a coat pulled by the two
tails, like; for I couldn't stop the parson, I couldn't take upon
me to do that; and yet I said to myself, I says, “Suppose they
shouldn't be fast married, 'cause the words are contrairy? ' and
my head went working like a mill, for I was allays uncommon
for turning things over and seeing all round 'em; and I says to
myself, Is't the meanin' or the words as makes folks fast i'
wedlock? ' For the parson meant right, and the bride and bride-
groom meant right. But then when I come to think on it,
meanin' goes but a little way i' most things, for you may mean
to stick things together and your glue may be bad, and then
where are you? And so I says to mysen, It isn't the meanin',
it's the glue. ' And I was worreted as if I'd got three bells to
pull at once, when we got into the vestry, and they begun to
sign their names. But where's the use o' talking ? - you can't
think what goes on in a 'cute man's inside. ”
## p. 5388 (#564) ###########################################
5388
GEORGE ELIOT
But you held in for all that, didn't you, Mr. Macey ? ” said
the landlord.
“Ay, I held in tight till I was by mysen, wi' Mr. Drumlow,
and then I out wi' everything, but respectful, as I allays did.
And he made light on it, and he says: -Pooh, pooh, Macey,
make yourself easy,' he says, 'it's neither the meaning nor the
words — it's the register does it — that's the glue. ' So you see
he settled it easy; for parsons and doctors know everything by
heart, like, so as they aren't worreted wi' thinking what's the
rights and wrongs o' things, as I'n been many and many's the
time. And sure enough the wedding turned out all right, on'y
poor Mrs. Lammeter — that's Miss Osgood as was — died afore
the lasses were growed up; but for prosperity and everything
respectable, there's no family more looked on. ”
Every one of Mr. Macey's audience had heard this story many
times, but it was listened to as if it had been a favorite tune,
and at certain points the puffing of the pipes was momentarily
suspended, that the listeners might give their whole minds to
the expected words. But there was more to come; and Mr.
Snell, the landlord, duly put the leading question:-
“Why, old Mr. Lammeter had a pretty fortin, didn't they
say, when he come into these parts ? ”
“Well, yes," said Mr. Macey; but I dare say it's as much as
this Mr. Lammeter's done to keep it whole.
Why, they're
stables four times as big as Squire Cass's, for he thought o'
nothing but hosses and hunting, Cliff didn't -a Lunnon tailor,
some folks said, as had gone mad wi' cheating. For he couldn't
ride, Lor bless you! they said he'd got no more grip o' the hoss
than if his legs had been cross-sticks: my grandfather heared old
Squire Cass say so many and many a time. But ride he would,
as if Old Harry had been a-driving him; and he'd a son, a lad o'
sixteen; and nothing would his father have him do but he must
ride and ride — though the lad was frightened, they said. And it
was a common saying as the father wanted to ride the tailor out
o' the lad, and make a gentleman on him -- not but what I'm a
tailor myself, but in respect as God made me such, I'm proud on
it, for Macey, tailor,' 's been wrote up over our door since afore
the Queen's heads went out on the shillings. But Cliff, he was
ashamed o’ being called a tailor, and he was sore vexed as his
riding was laughed at, and nobody o' the gentlefolks here about
could abide him. Howsomever, the poor lad got sickly and died,
## p. 5389 (#565) ###########################################
GEORGE ELIOT
5389
and the father didn't live long after him, for he got queerer nor
ever, and they said he used to go out i' the dead o' the night,
wi' a lantern in his hand, to the stables, and set a lot o' lights
burning, for he got as he couldn't sleep; and there he'd stand,
cracking his whip and looking at his hosses; and they said it was
a mercy as the stables didn't get burnt down wi’ the poor dumb
creaturs in 'em. But at last he died raving, and they found as
he'd left all his property, Warrens and all, to a Lunnon Charity,
and that's how the Warrens come to be Charity Land; though
as for the stables, Mr. Lammeter never uses 'em — they're out o'
all charicter — Lor bless you! if you was to set the doors a-banging
in 'em, it 'ud sound like thunder half o'er the parish. ”
"Ay, but there's more going on in the stables than what folks
see by daylight, eh, Mr. Macey ? " said the landlord.
“Ay, ay; go that way of a dark night, that's all,” said Mr.
Macey, winking mysteriously, “and then make believe, if you
like, as you didn't see lights i' the stables, nor hear the stamping
o'the hosses, nor the cracking o' the whips, and howling too, if
it's tow'rt daybreak. Cliff's Holiday' has been the name of it
ever sin’ I were a boy; that's to say, some said as it was the
holiday Old Harry gev him from roasting, like. That's what my
father told me, and he was a reasonable man, though there's
folks nowadays know what happened afore they were born better
nor they know their own business. ”
“What do you say to that, eh, Dowlas ? " said the landlord,
turning to the farrier, who was swelling with impatience for his
cue: “here's a nut for you to crack. ”
Mr. Dowlas was the negative spirit in the company, and was
proud of his position.
Say? I
say
what a
man should say as doesn't shut his
eyes to look at a finger-post. I say as I'm ready to wager any
man ten pound, if he'll stand out wi' me any dry night in the
pasture before the Warren stables, as we shall neither see lights
nor hear noises, if it isn't the blowing of our own noses. That's
what I say, and I've said it many a time; but there's nobody
'ull ventur a ten-pun' note on their ghos'es as they make so
sure of. ”
«Why, Dowlas, that's easy betting, that is,” said Ben Win-
throp. «You might as well bet a man as he wouldn't catch the
rheumatise if he stood up to 's neck in the pool of a frosty
night. It 'ud be fine fun for a man to win his bet as he'd
## p. 5390 (#566) ###########################################
5390
GEORGE ELIOT
I'd as
catch the rheumatise. Folks as believe in Cliff's Holiday aren't
a-going to ventur near it for a matter o' ten pound. ”
"If Master Dowlas wants to know the truth on it,” said Mr.
Macey, with a sarcastic smile, tapping his thumbs together, "he's
no call to lay any bet; let him go and stan' by himself - there's
nobody 'ull hinder him; and then he can let the parish'ners
know if they're wrong. ”
« Thank you! I'm obliged to you,” said the farrier, with a
snort of scorn. “If folks are fools, it's no business o' mine. I
don't want to make out the truth about ghos'es; I know it
a'ready. But I'm not against a bet — everything fair and open.
Let any man bet me ten pound as I shall see Cliff's Holiday,
and I'll go and stand by myself. I want no company.
lief do it as I'd fill this pipe. ”
“Ah, but who's to watch you, Dowlas, and see you do it?
That's no fair bet,” said the butcher.
“No fair bet ? ” replied Mr. Dowlas angrily. “I should like
to hear any man stand up and say I want to bet unfair. Come
now, Master Lundy, I should like to hear you say it. "
"Very like you would,” said the butcher.
« But it's no
business o' mine. You're none of my bargains, and I aren't
a-going to try and 'bate your price. If anybody'll bid for you
at your own vallying, let him. I'm for peace and quietness, I
am. ”
“Yes, that's what every yapping cur is, when you hold a
stick up at him," said the farrier. “But I'm afraid o' neither
man nor ghost, and I'm ready to lay a fair bet — I aren't a turn-
tail cur. ”
“Ay, but there's this in it, Dowlas,” said the landlord, speak-
ing in a tone of much candor and tolerance. « There's folks, i'
my opinion, they can't see ghos'es, not if they stood as plain as
a pike-staff before 'em. And there's reason i' that. For there's
my wife, now, can't smell, not if she'd the strongest o' cheese
under her nose. I never seed a ghost myself; but then I says
to myself, Very like I haven't got the smell for 'em. I mean,
putting a ghost for a smell, or else contrariways. And so I'm
for holding with both sides; for as I say, the truth lies between
'em. And if Dowlas was to go and stand, and say he'd never
seen a wink o' Cliff's Holiday, all the night through, I'd back
him; and if anybody said as Cliff's Holiday was certain sure for
all that, I'd back hiin too. For the smell's what I go by. ”
## p. 5391 (#567) ###########################################
GEORGE ELIOT
5391
The landlord's analogical argument was not well received by
the farrier -a man intensely opposed to compromise.
“Tut, tut,” he said setting down his glass with refreshed irri-
tation; what's the smell got to do with it? Did ever a ghost
give a man a black eye? That's what I should like to know. If
ghos'es want me to believe in 'em, let 'em leave off skulking i’
the dark and i' lone places — let 'em come where there's com-
pany and candles. »
“As if ghos'es 'ud want to be believed in by anybody so
ignorant! ” said Mr.
Macey, in deep disgust at the farrier's crass
imcompetence to apprehend the conditions of ghostly phenomena.
THE HALL FARM
From (Adam Bede)
E
VIDENTLY that gate is never opened; for the long grass and
the great hemlocks grow close against it; and if it were
opened, it is so rusty that the force necessary to turn to
on its hinges would be likely to pull down the square stone-
built pillars, to the detriment of the two stone lionesses which
grin with a doubtful carnivorous affability above coat of arms
surmounting each of the pillars. It would be easy enough, by
the aid of the nicks in the stone pillars, to climb over the brick
wall with its smooth stone coping; but by putting our eyes close
to the rusty bars of the gate, we can see the house well enough,
and all but the very corners of the grassy inclosure.
It is a very fine old place, of red brick, softened by a pale
powdery lichen, which has dispersed itself with happy irregu-
larity, so as to bring the red brick into terms of friendly com-
panionship with the limestone ornaments surrounding the three
gables, the windows, and the door-place. But the windows are
patched with wooden panes, and the door, I think, is like the
gate - it is never opened: how it would groan and grate against
the stone floor if it were! For it is a solid, heavy, handsome
door, and must once have been in the habit of shutting with a
sonorous bang behind a liveried lackey who had just seen his
master and mistress off the grounds in a carriage and pair.
But at present one might fancy the house in the early stage
of a chancery suit, and that the fruit from that grand double
## p. 5392 (#568) ###########################################
5392
GEORGE ELIOT
1
1
.
I
row of walnut-trees on the right hand of the inclosure would
fall and rot among the grass; if it were not that we heard the
booming bark of dogs echoing from great buildings at the back.
And now the half-weaned calves that have been sheltering them-
selves in a gorse-built hovel against the left-hand wall come out
and set up a silly answer to that terrible bark, doubtless suppos-
ing that it has reference to buckets of milk.
Yes, the house must be inhabited, and we will see by whom;
for imagination is a licensed trespasser: it has no fear of dogs,
but may climb over walls and peep in at windows with impunity.
Put your face to one of the glass panes in the right-hand win-
dow: what do you see? A large open fireplace, with rusty dogs
in it, and a bare boarded floor; at the far end, fleeces of wool
stacked up; in the middle of the floor, some empty corn-bags.
That is the furniture of the dining-room. And what through the
left-hand window? Several clothes-horses, a pillion, a spinning.
wheel, and an old box wide open, and stuffed full of colored
rags. At the edge of this box there lies a great wooden doll,
which so far as mutilation is concerned bears a strong resem-
blance to the finest Greek sculpture, and especially in the total
loss of its nose. Near it there is a little chair, and the butt-end
of a boy's leather long-lashed whip.
The history of the house is plain now. It was once the resi-
dence of a country squire, whose family, probably dwindling
down to mere spinsterhood, got merged in the more territorial
name of Donnithorne. It was once the Hall; it is now the Hall
Farm. Like the life in some coast town that was once a water-
ing-place, and is now a port, where the genteel streets are silent
and grass-grown, and the docks and warehouses busy and reso-
nant, the life at the Hall has changed its focus, and no longer
radiates from the parlor, but from the kitchen and the farm-yard.
Plenty of life there! though this is the drowsiest time of the
year, just before hay harvest; and it is the drowsiest time of the
day too, for it is close upon three by the sun, and it is half-past
three by Mrs. Poyser's handsome eight-day clock. But there is
always a stronger sense of life when the sun is brilliant after
rain; and now he is pouring down his beams, and making
sparkles among the wet straw, and lighting up every patch of
vivid green moss on the red tiles of the cow-shed, and turning
even the muddy water that is hurrying along the channel to the
drain into a mirror for the yellow-billed ducks, who are seizing
1
1
## p. 5393 (#569) ###########################################
GEORGE ELIOT
5393
the opportunity of getting a drink with as much body in it as
possible. There is quite a concert of noises: the great bull-dog,
chained against the stables, is thrown into furious exasperation
by the unwary approach of a cock too near the mouth of his
kennel, and sends forth a thundering bark, which is answered by
two fox-hounds shut up in the opposite cow-house; the old top-
knotted hens, scratching with their chicks among the straw, set
up a sympathetic croaking as the discomfited cock joins them;
a sow with her brood, all very muddy as to the legs, and curled
as to the tail, throws in some deep staccato notes; our friends
the calves are bleating from the home croft; and under all, a
fine ear discerns the continuous hum of human voices.
For the great barn doors are thrown wide open, and men are
busy there mending the harness under the superintendence of
Mr. Goby the "whittaw,” otherwise saddler, who entertains them
with the latest Treddleston gossip. It is certainly rather an
unfortunate day that Alick the shepherd has chosen for having
the whittaws, since the morning turned out so wet; and Mrs.
Poyser has spoken her mind pretty strongly as to the dirt which
the extra number of men's shoes brought into the house at din-
ner-time. Indeed, she has not yet recovered her equanimity on
the subject, though it is now nearly three hours since dinner
and the house floor is perfectly clean again; as clean as every.
thing else in that wonderful house-place, where the only chance
of collecting a few grains of dust would be to climb on the salt-
coffer, and put your finger on the high mantel shelf on which
the glittering brass candlesticks are enjoying their summer sin-
ecure; for at this time of year of course every one goes to bed
while it is yet light, or at least light enough to discern the out-
line of objects after you have bruised your shins against them.
Surely nowhere else could an oak clock-case and an oak table
have got to such a polish by the hand: genuine elbow polish,”
as Mrs. Poyser called it, for she thanked God she never had any
of your varnished rubbish in her house. Hetty Sorrel often took
the opportunity, when her aunt's back was turned, of looking
at the pleasing reflection of herself in those polished surfaces, for
the oak table was usually turned up like a screen, and was more
for ornament than for use; and she could see herself sometimes
in the great round pewter dishes that were ranged on the shelves
above the long deal dinner-table, or in the hobs of the grate,
which always shone like jasper.
IX--338
## p. 5394 (#570) ###########################################
5394
GEORGE ELIOT
1
Everything was looking at its brightest at this moment, for
the sun shone right on the pewter dishes, and from their reflect-
ing surfaces pleasant jets of light were thrown on mellow oak and
bright brass; — and on a still pleasanter object than these; for
some of the rays fell on Dinah's finely molded cheek, and lit
up her pale-red hair to auburn, as she bent over the heavy
household linen which she was mending for her aunt. No scene
could have been more peaceful, if Mrs. Poyser, who was ironing
a few things that still remained from the Monday's wash, had
not been making a frequent clinking with her iron, and moving
to and fro whenever she wanted it to cool; carrying the keen
glance of her blue-gray eye from the kitchen to the dairy, where
Hetty was making up the butter, and from the dairy to the
back kitchen, where Nancy was taking the pies out of the oven.
Do not suppose however that Mrs. Poyser was elderly or
shrewish in her appearance; she was a good-looking woman, not
more than eight-and-thirty, of fair complexion and sandy hair,
well-shapen, light-footed; the most conspicuous article in her
attire was an ample checkered linen apron, which almost covered
her skirt; and nothing could be plainer or less noticeable than
her cap and gown, for there was no weakness of which she was
less tolerant than feminine vanity, and the preference of orna-
ment to utility. The family likeness between her and her niece
Dinah Morris, with the contrast between her keenness and
Dinah's seraphic gentleness of expression, might have served a
painter as an excellent suggestion for a Martha and Mary. Their
eyes were just of the same color, but a striking test of the
difference in their operation was seen in the demeanor of Trip,
the black-and-tan terrier, whenever that much-suspected dog un-
warily exposed himself to the freezing arctic ray of Mrs. Poyser's
glance. Her tongue was not less keen than her eye, and when-
ever a damsel came within earshot, seemed to take up an unfin-
ished lecture, as a barrel organ takes up a tune, precisely at the
point where it had left off.
The fact that it was churning day was another reason why it
was inconvenient to have the whittaws, and why, consequently,
Mrs. Poyser should scold Molly the housemaid with unusual
severity. To all appearance Molly had got through her after-
dinner work in an exemplary manner, had “cleaned herself »
with great dispatch, and now came to ask submissively if she
should sit down to her spinning till milking-time. But this
## p. 5395 (#571) ###########################################
GEORGE ELIOT
5395
blameless conduct, according to Mrs. Poyser, shrouded a secret
indulgence of unbecoming wishes, which she now dragged forth
and held up to Molly's view with cutting eloquence.
« Spinning, indeed! It isn't spinning as you'd be at, I'll be
bound, and let you have your own way. I never knew your
equals for gallowsness. To think of a gell o' your age wanting
to go and sit with half-a-dozen men! I'd ha' been ashamed to
let the words pass over my lips if I'd been you. And you, as
have been here ever since last Michaelmas, and I hired you
at Treddles'on stattits, without a bit o' character - as I say, you
might be grateful to be hired in that way to a respectable place;
and you knew no more o' what belongs to work when you come
here than the mawkin i' the field. As poor a two-fisted thing as
ever I saw, you
know
you was.
Who taught you to scrub a
floor, I should like to know? Why, you'd leave the dirt in
heaps i' the corners - anybody 'ud think you'd never been brought
up among Christians.
And as for spinning, why you've wasted as
much as your wage i' the flax you've spoiled learning to spin.
And you've a right to feel that, and not to go about as gaping
and as thoughtless as if you was beholding to nobody. Comb
the wool for the whittaws, indeed! That's what you'd like to
be doing, is it? That's the way with you — that's the road you'd
all like to go, headlongs to ruin. You're never easy till you've
got some sweetheart as is as big a fool as yourself: you think
you'll be finely off when you're married, I dare say, and have
got a three-legged stool to sit on, and never a blanket to cover
you, and a bit o' oat-cake for your dinner, as three children are
a-snatching at. ”
“I'm sure I donna want t go wi' the whittaws,” said Molly,
whimpering, and quite overcome by this Dantean picture of her
future; «on'y we allays used to comb the wool for 'n at Mester
Ottley's, an' so I just asked ye. I donna want to set eyes on
the whittaws again; I wish I may never stir if I do. ”
“Mr. Ottley's, indeed! It's fine talking o' what you did at
Mr. Ottley's. Your missis there might like her floors dirted wi'
whittaws for what I know. There's no knowing what people
wonna like — such ways as I've heard of! I never had a gell
come into my house as seemed to know what cleaning was; I
think people live like pigs, for my part. And as to that Betty
as was dairymaid at Trent's before she come to me, she'd ha' left
the cheeses without turning from week's end to week's end; and
## p. 5396 (#572) ###########################################
5396
1
GEORGE ELIOT
1
!
1
now.
the dairy thralls, I might ha' wrote my name on 'em, when I
come down-stairs after my illness, as the doctor said it was in-
flammation — it was a mercy I got well of it. And to think o'
your knowing no better, Molly, and been here a-going i nine
months, and not for want o' talking to, neither;- and what are
you stanning there for, like a jack as is run down, instead o'
getting your wheel out ?
You're a rare un for sitting down to
your work a little while after it's time to put by. ”
Munny, my iron's twite told; pease put it down to warm. ”
The small chirruping voice that uttered this request came from
a little sunny-haired girl between three and four, who, seated on
a high chair at the end of the ironing-table, was arduously
clutching the handle of a miniature iron with her tiny fat fist,
and ironing rags with an assiduity that required her to put her
little red tongue out as far as anatomy would allow.
“Cold, is it, my darling? Bless your sweet face! ” said Mrs.
Poyser, who was remarkable for the facility with which she could
relapse from her official objurgatory to one of fondness or of
friendly converse. Never mind! Mother's done her ironing
She's going to put the ironing things away. ”
"Munny, I tould 'ike to do into de barn to Tommy, to see
de whittawd. ”
"No, no, no; Totty 'ud get her feet wet,” said Mrs. Poyser,
carrying away her iron. “Run into the dairy and see Cousin
Hetty make the butter. ”
“I tould like a bit of pum-take,” rejoined Totty, who seemed
to be provided with several relays of requests; at the same time
taking the opportunity of her momentary leisure to put her
fingers into a bowl of starch and drag it down so as to empty
the contents with tolerable completeness on to the ironing-sheet.
“Did ever anybody see the like ? " screamed Mrs. Poyser, run-
ning towards the table when her eye had fallen on the blue
stream. “The child's allays i' mischief if your back's turned a
minute. What shall I do to you, you naughty, naughty gell? ”
Totty, however, had descended from her chair with great swift-
ness, and was already in retreat towards the dairy with a sort of
waddling run, and an amount of fat on the nape of her neck
which made her look like the metamorphosis of a white sucking
pig.
The starch having been wiped up by Molly's help, and the
ironing apparatus put by, Mrs. Poyser took up her knitting,
## p. 5397 (#573) ###########################################
GEORGE ELIOT
5397
Ah! your
which always lay ready at hand and was the work she liked best,
because she could carry it on automatically as she walked to and
fro. But now she came and sat down opposite Dinah, whom she
looked at in a meditative way, as she knitted her gray worsted
stocking
“You look th' image o' your Aunt Judith, Dinah, when you
sit a-sewing. I could almost fancy it was thirty years back, and
I was a little gell at home, looking at Judith as she sat at her
work after she'd done the house up; only it was a little cottage,
father's was, and not a big rambling house as gets dirty i one
corner as fast as you clean it in another; but for all that I could
fancy you was your Aunt Judith, only her hair was a deal darker
than yours, and she was stouter and broader i' the shoulders.
Judith and me allays hung together, though she had such queer
ways, but your mother and her never could agree.
mother little thought as she'd have a daughter just cut out after
the very pattern of Judith, and leave her an orphan too, for Judith
to take care on, and bring up with a spoon when she was in the
grave-yard at Stoniton. I allays said that o' Judith, as she'd bear
a pound weight any day to save anybody else carrying a ounce.
And she was just the same from the first o' my remembering
her; it made no difference in her, as I could see, when she took
to the Methodists, only she talked a bit different, and wore a
different sort o' cap; but she'd never in her life spent a penny
on herself more than keeping herself decent. ”
“She was a blessed woman,” said Dinah: "God had given her
a loving, self-forgetting nature, and he perfected it by grace.
And she was very fond of you too, Aunt Rachel. I've often
heard her talk of you in the same sort of way. When she had
that bad illness, and I was only eleven years old, she used to say,
(You'll have a friend on earth in your Aunt Rachel, if I'm taken
from you; for she has a kind heart;' and I'm sure I've found
it so. ”
“I don't know how, child; anybody 'ud be cunning to do any-
thing for you, I think; you're like the birds o'th' air, and live
nobody knows how. I'd ha' been glad to behave to you like a
mother's sister, if you'd come and live i' this country, where
there's some shelter and victual for man and beast, and folks
don't live on the naked hills, like poultry a-scratching on a gravel
bank. And then you might get married to some decent man,
and there'd be plenty ready to have you, if you'd only leave off
## p. 5398 (#574) ###########################################
5398
GEORGE ELIOT
that preaching, as is ten times worse than anything your Aunt
Judith ever did. And even if you'd marry Seth Bede, as is a
poor wool-gathering Methodist, and's never like to have a penny
beforehand, I know your uncle 'ud help you with a pig, and very
like a cow, for he's allays been good-natur'd to my kin, for all
they're poor, and made 'em welcome to the house; and 'ud do
for you, I'll be bound, as much as ever he'd do for Hetty, though
she's his own niece. And there's linen in the house as I could
well spare you, for I've got lots o' sheeting, and table-clothing,
and toweling, as isn't made up. There's a piece o' sheeting I
could give you as that squinting Kitty spun — she was a rare girl
to spin, for all she squinted and the children couldn't abide her;
and you know the spinning's going on constant, and there's new
linen wove twice as fast as the old wears out. But where's the
use o' talking, if ye wonna be persuaded, and settle down like
any other woman in her senses, . i'stead o' wearing yourself out
with walking and preaching, and giving away every penny you
get, so as you've nothing saved against sickness; and all the things
you've got i' the world, I verily believe, 'ud go into a bundle no
bigger nor a double cheese. And all because you've got notions
i' your head about religion more nor what's i' the Catechism and
the Prayer-book. ”
“But not more than what's in the Bible, Aunt,” said Dinah.
“Yes, and the Bible too, for that matter,” Mrs. Poyser re-
joined rather sharply; "else why shouldn't them as know best
what's in the Bible — the parsons and people as have got
nothing to do but learn it — do the same as you do? But for
the matter o’that, if everybody was to do like you, the world
must come to a standstill; for if everybody tried to do without
house and home, and with poor eating and drinking, and was
allays talking as we must despise the things o' the world, as you
say, I should like to know where the pick o' the stock, and the
corn, and the best new-milk cheeses 'ud have to go. Everybody
'ud be wanting bread made o' tail ends, and everybody 'ud be
running after everybody else to preach to 'em, istead o' bring-
ing up their families, and laying by against a bad harvest. It
stands to sense as that can't be the right religion. ”
“Nay, dear Aunt, you never heard me say that all people
are called to forsake their work and their families.
It's quite
right the land should be plowed and sowed, and the precious
corn stored, and the things of this life cared for, and right that
## p. 5399 (#575) ###########################################
GEORGE ELIOT
5399
people should rejoice in their families, and provide for them; so
that this is done in the fear of the Lord, and that they are not
unmindful of the soul's wants while they are caring for the body.
We can all be servants of God wherever our lot is cast, but he
gives us different sorts of work, according as he fits us for it and
calls us to it. I can no more help spending my life in trying to
do what I can for the souls of others, than you could help run-
ning if you heard little Totty crying at the other end of the
house; the voice would go to your heart, you would think the
dear child was in trouble or in danger, and you couldn't rest
without running to help her and comfort her. ”
“Ah,” said Mrs. Poyser, rising and walking towards the door,
“I know it ’ud be just the same if I was to talk to you for
hours. You'd make me the same answer, at th' end. I might as
well talk to the running brook, and tell it to stan' still. ”
The causeway outside the kitchen door was dry enough now
for Mrs. Poyser to stand there quite pleasantly and see what was
going on in the yard, the gray worsted stocking making a steady
progress in her hands all the while. But she had not been
standing there more than five minutes before she came in again,
and said to Dinah in rather a flurried, awe-stricken tone: -
“If there isn't Captain Donnithorne and Mr. Irwine a-coming
into the yard! I'll lay my life they're come to speak about your
preaching on the Green, Dinah; it's you must answer 'em, for
I'm dumb. I've said enough a'ready about your bringing such
disgrace upo' your uncle's family. I wouldn't ha' minded if
you'd been Mr. Poyser's own niece — folks must put up wi’ their
own kin, as they put up wi' their own noses; it's their own flesh
and blood. But to think of a niece o' mine being cause o' my
husband's being turned out of his farm, and me brought him no
fortin but my savins — ”
"Nay, dear Aunt Rachel,” said Dinah gently, "you've no
cause for such fears. I've strong assurance that no evil will
happen to you and my uncle and the children from anything
I've done. I didn't preach without direction. ”
<Direction! I know very well what you mean by direction,”
said Mrs. Poyser, knitting in a rapid and agitated manner.
“When there's a bigger maggot than usial in your head you call
it direction’; and then nothing can stir you — you look like the
statty o' the outside o' Treddles'on church, a-starin' and a-smilin'
whether it's fair weather or foul. I hanna common patience with
you. ”
## p. 5400 (#576) ###########################################
5400
GEORGE ELIOT
!
1
By this time the two gentlemen had reached the palings and
had got down from their horses: it was plain they meant to
come in. Mrs. Poyser advanced to the door to meet them, curt-
seying low, and trembling between anger with Dinah and anx-
iety to conduct herself with perfect propriety on the occasion.
For in those days the keenest of bucolic minds felt a whispering
awe at the sight of the gentry, such as of old men felt when
they stood on tiptoe to watch the gods passing by in tall human
shape.
“Well, Mrs. Poyser, how are you after this stormy morning ? »
said Mr. Irwine with his stately cordiality. “Our feet are quite
dry; we shall not soil your beautiful floor. ”
“Oh, sir, don't mention it,” said Mrs. Poyser. “Will you and
the captain please to walk into the parlor ? »
“No, indeed, thank you, Mrs. Poyser,” said the captain, look-
ing eagerly round the kitchen, as if his eye were seeking some-
thing it could not find. "I delight in your kitchen. I think it
is the most charming room I know. I should like every farmer's
wife to come and look at it for a pattern. "
"Oh, you're pleased to say so, sir. Pray take a seat,” said
Mrs. Poyser, relieved a little by this compliment and the captain's
evident good-humor, but still glancing anxiously at Mr. Irwine,
who she saw was looking at Dinah and advancing towards her.
Poyser is not at home, is he? ” said Captain Donnithorne,
seating himself where he could see along the short passage to
the open dairy door.
“No, sir, he isn't; he's gone to Rosseter to see Mr. West, the
factor, about the wool. But there's father i' the barn, sir, if
he'd be of any use. ”
"No, thank you; I'll just look at the whelps and leave a
message about them with your shepherd. I must come another
day and see your husband; I want to have a consultation with
him about horses. Do you know when he's likely to be at
liberty ? ”
"Why, sir, you can hardly miss him, except it's o' Treddles’on
market-day — that's of a Friday, you know. For if he's any-
where on the farm we can send for him in a minute. If we'd
got rid of the Scantlands we should have no outlying fields; and
I should be glad of it, for if ever anything happens he's sure to
be gone to the Scantlands. Things allays happen so contrairy, if
they've a chance; and it's an unnat'ral thing to have one bit o'
your farm in one county and all the rest in another. »
1
## p. 5401 (#577) ###########################################
GEORGE ELIOT
5401
“Ah, the Scantlands would go much better with Choyce's
farm, especially as he wants dairy land and you've got plenty. I
think yours is the prettiest farm on the estate, though; and do
you know, Mrs. Poyser, if I were going to marry and settle, I
should be tempted to turn you out, and do up this fine old
house, and turn farmer myself. ”
“Oh, sir,” said Mrs. Poyser, rather alarmed, "you wouldn't
like it at all. As for farming, it's putting money into your
pocket wi' your right hand and fetching it out wi' your left. As
fur as I can see, it's raising victual for other folks, and just get-
ting a mouthful for yourself and your children as you go along:
Not as you'd be like a poor man as wants to get his bread: you
could afford to lose as much money as you liked i’ farming; but
it's poor fun losing money, I should think, though I understan'
it's what the great folks i' London play at more than anything.
nothing to that; but this I say, as the Rainbow's the Rainbow.
And for the matter o' that, if the talk is to be o' the Lammeters,
you know the most upo' that head, eh, Mr. Macey? You remem-
ber when first Mr. Lammeter's father come into these parts, and
took the Warrens ? »
Mr. Macey, tailor and parish clerk, the latter of which func-
tions rheumatism had of late obliged him to share with a small-
featured young man who sat opposite him, held his white head
on one side, and twirled his thumbs with an air of complacency,
slightly seasoned with criticism. He smiled pityingly in answer
to the landlord's appeal, and said:
"Ay, ay; I know, I know; but I let other folks talk. I've laid
by now, and gev up to the young uns. Ask them as have been
to school at Tarley; they've learned pernouncing; that's come up
since my day. ”
"If you're pointing at me, Mr. Macey,” said the deputy clerk,
with an air of anxious propriety, "I'm nowise a man to speak out
of my place. As the psalm says:
«< I know what's right; nor only so,
But also practice what I know. ) »
“Well, then, I wish you'd keep hold o' the tune when it's set
for you; if you're for practicing I wish you'd practice that,” said a
large jocose-looking man, an excellent wheelwright in his week-
day capacity, but on Sundays leader of the choir. He winked, as
he spoke, at two of the company who were known officially as
“the bassoon” and “the key bugle,” in the confidence that he was
expressing the sense of the musical profession in Raveloe.
Mr. Tookey the deputy clerk, who shared the unpopularity
common to deputies, turned very red, but replied with careful
moderation :-"Mr. Winthrop, if you'll bring me any proof as I'm
in the wrong, I'm not the man to say I won't alter. But there's
people set up their own ears for a standard, and expect the
whole choir to follow 'em. There may be two opinions, I hope. ”
“Ay, ay,” said Mr. Macey, who felt very well satisfied with
this attack on youthful presumption; "you're right there, Tookey:
there's allays two 'pinions; there's the 'pinion a man has of him-
sen, and there's the 'pinion other folks have on him. There'd
be two 'pinions about a cracked bell, if the bell could hear
itself. ”
## p. 5385 (#561) ###########################################
GEORGE ELIOT
5385
It's your
“Well, Mr. Macey,” said poor Tookey, serious amidst the
general laughter, “I undertook to partially fill up the office of
parish clerk by Mr. Crackenthorp's desire, whenever your infirm-
ities should make you unfitting; and it's one of the rights
thereof to sing in the choir - else why have you done the same
yourself? ”
“Ah! but the old gentleman and you are two folks,” said
Ben Winthrop. "The old gentleman's got a gift. Why, the
Squire used to invite him to take a glass, only to hear him sing
the Red Rovier'; didn't he, Mr. Macey? It's a nat'ral gift.
There's my little lad Aaron, he's got a gift — he can sing a tune
off straight, like a throstle. But as for you, Master Tookey,
you'd better stick to your Amens': your voice is well enough
when you keep it up
in
your nose.
inside as isn't
right made for music: it's no better nor a hollow stalk. ”
This kind of unflinching frankness was the most piquant
form of joke to the company at the Rainbow, and Ben Win-
throp's insult was felt by everybody to have capped Mr. Macey's
epigram.
"I see what it is plain enough,” said Mr. Tookey, unable to
keep cool any longer. “There's a consperacy to turn me out o'
the choir, as I shouldn't share the Christmas money that's
where it is. But I shall speak to Mr. Crackenthorp; I'll not be
put upon by no man. "
"Nay, nay, Tookey,” said Ben Winthrop.
« We'll pay you
your share to keep out of it -- that's what we'll do. There's
things folks 'ud pay to be rid on, besides varmin. ”
“Come, come,” said the landlord, who felt that paying people
for their absence was a principle dangerous to society; "a joke's
a joke. We're all good friends here, I hope. We must give and
take. You're both right and you're both wrong, as I say. I
agree wi' Mr. Macey here, as there's two opinions; and if mine
was asked, I should say they're both right. Tookey's right and
Winthrop's right, and they've only got to split the difference
and make themselves even. ”
The farrier was puffing his pipe rather fiercely, in some con-
tempt at this trivial discussion. He had no ear for music himself,
and never went to church, as being of the medical profession, and
likely to be in requisition for delicate cows. But the butcher,
having music in his soul, had listened with a divided desire, for
Tookey's defeat and for the preservation of the peace.
## p. 5386 (#562) ###########################################
5386
GEORGE ELIOT
"To be sure,” he said, following up the landlord's conciliatory
view, we're fond of our old clerk; it's nat'ral, and him used
to be such a singer, and got a brother as is known for the first
fiddler in this country-side. Eh, it's a pity but what Solomon
lived in our village, and could give us a tune when he liked, eh,
Mr. Macey? I'd keep him in liver and lights for nothing - that
I would. ”
“Ay, ay,” said Mr. Macey, in the height of complacency;
our family's been known for musicianers as far back as any-
body can tell. But them things are dying out, as I tell Solomon
every time he comes round; there's no voices like what there
used to be, and there's nobody remembers what we remember, if
it ain't the old crows. "
“Ay, you remember when first Mr. Lammeter's father came
into these parts, don't you, Mr. Macey? " said the landlord.
"I should think I did,” said the old man, who had now gone
through that complimentary process necessary to bring him up
to the point of narration; "and a fine old gentleman he was- as
fine and finer nor the Mr. Lammeter as now is. He came from
a bit north'ard, so far as I could ever make out. But there's
nobody rightly knows about those parts; only it couldn't be far
north'ard, nor much different from this country, for he brought a
fine breed o' sheep with him, so there must be pastures there, and
everything reasonable. We heard tell as he'd sold his own land
to come and take the Warrens, and that seemed odd for a man as
had land of his own, to come and rent a farm in a strange place.
But they said it was along of his wife's dying; though there's
reasons in things as nobody knows on — that's pretty much what
I've made out; though some folks are so wise that they'll find
you fifty reasons straight off, and all the while the real reason's
winking at 'em in the corner, and they niver see't. Howsom-
ever, it was soon as we'd got a new parish'ner as know'd
the rights and customs o' things, and kep a good house, and was
well looked on by everybody. And the young man — that's the
Mr. Lammeter as now is, for he'd niver a sister - soon begun to
court Miss Osgood, that's the sister o' the Mr. Osgood as now is,
and a fine handsome lass she was - eh, you can't think — they
pretend this young lass is like her, but that's the way wi' people
as don't know what come before 'em. I should know, for I helped
the old rector, Mr. Drumlow as was, I helped him marry
'em. ”
seen
## p. 5387 (#563) ###########################################
GEORGE ELIOT
5387
Here Mr. Macey paused; he always gave his narrative in in-
stallments, expecting to be questioned according to precedent.
“Ay, and a partic'lar thing happened, didn't it, Mr. Macey,
so as you were likely to remember that marriage ? ” said the
landlord, in a congratulatory tone.
"I should think there did - a very partic'lar thing,” said Mr.
Macey, nodding sideways. “For Mr. Drumlow poor old gen-
tleman, I was fond on him, though he'd got a bit confused in
his head, what wi' age and wi' taking a drop o' summat warm
when the service come of a cold morning; and young Mr.
Lammeter he'd have no way but he must be married in Jani-
wary, which, to be sure, 's a unreasonable time to be married in,
for it isn't like a christening or a burying, as you can't help;
and so Mr. Drumlow — poor old gentleman, I was fond on him;
but when he come to put the questions, he put 'em by the rule
o' contrairy like, and he says, Wilt thou have this man to thy
wedded wife ? ' says he, and then he says, Wilt thou have this
woman to thy wedded husband ? ' says he. But the partic’larest
thing of all is, as nobody took any notice on it but me, and
they answered straight off Yes,' like as if it had been me saying
Amen' i' the right place, without listening to what went before. ”
“But you knew what was going on well enough, didn't you,
Mr. Macey? You were live enough, eh ? ” said the butcher.
"Lor bless you! ” said Mr. Macey, pausing, and smiling in
pity at the impotence of his hearers' imagination, -"why, I was
all of a tremble: it was as if I'd been a coat pulled by the two
tails, like; for I couldn't stop the parson, I couldn't take upon
me to do that; and yet I said to myself, I says, “Suppose they
shouldn't be fast married, 'cause the words are contrairy? ' and
my head went working like a mill, for I was allays uncommon
for turning things over and seeing all round 'em; and I says to
myself, Is't the meanin' or the words as makes folks fast i'
wedlock? ' For the parson meant right, and the bride and bride-
groom meant right. But then when I come to think on it,
meanin' goes but a little way i' most things, for you may mean
to stick things together and your glue may be bad, and then
where are you? And so I says to mysen, It isn't the meanin',
it's the glue. ' And I was worreted as if I'd got three bells to
pull at once, when we got into the vestry, and they begun to
sign their names. But where's the use o' talking ? - you can't
think what goes on in a 'cute man's inside. ”
## p. 5388 (#564) ###########################################
5388
GEORGE ELIOT
But you held in for all that, didn't you, Mr. Macey ? ” said
the landlord.
“Ay, I held in tight till I was by mysen, wi' Mr. Drumlow,
and then I out wi' everything, but respectful, as I allays did.
And he made light on it, and he says: -Pooh, pooh, Macey,
make yourself easy,' he says, 'it's neither the meaning nor the
words — it's the register does it — that's the glue. ' So you see
he settled it easy; for parsons and doctors know everything by
heart, like, so as they aren't worreted wi' thinking what's the
rights and wrongs o' things, as I'n been many and many's the
time. And sure enough the wedding turned out all right, on'y
poor Mrs. Lammeter — that's Miss Osgood as was — died afore
the lasses were growed up; but for prosperity and everything
respectable, there's no family more looked on. ”
Every one of Mr. Macey's audience had heard this story many
times, but it was listened to as if it had been a favorite tune,
and at certain points the puffing of the pipes was momentarily
suspended, that the listeners might give their whole minds to
the expected words. But there was more to come; and Mr.
Snell, the landlord, duly put the leading question:-
“Why, old Mr. Lammeter had a pretty fortin, didn't they
say, when he come into these parts ? ”
“Well, yes," said Mr. Macey; but I dare say it's as much as
this Mr. Lammeter's done to keep it whole.
Why, they're
stables four times as big as Squire Cass's, for he thought o'
nothing but hosses and hunting, Cliff didn't -a Lunnon tailor,
some folks said, as had gone mad wi' cheating. For he couldn't
ride, Lor bless you! they said he'd got no more grip o' the hoss
than if his legs had been cross-sticks: my grandfather heared old
Squire Cass say so many and many a time. But ride he would,
as if Old Harry had been a-driving him; and he'd a son, a lad o'
sixteen; and nothing would his father have him do but he must
ride and ride — though the lad was frightened, they said. And it
was a common saying as the father wanted to ride the tailor out
o' the lad, and make a gentleman on him -- not but what I'm a
tailor myself, but in respect as God made me such, I'm proud on
it, for Macey, tailor,' 's been wrote up over our door since afore
the Queen's heads went out on the shillings. But Cliff, he was
ashamed o’ being called a tailor, and he was sore vexed as his
riding was laughed at, and nobody o' the gentlefolks here about
could abide him. Howsomever, the poor lad got sickly and died,
## p. 5389 (#565) ###########################################
GEORGE ELIOT
5389
and the father didn't live long after him, for he got queerer nor
ever, and they said he used to go out i' the dead o' the night,
wi' a lantern in his hand, to the stables, and set a lot o' lights
burning, for he got as he couldn't sleep; and there he'd stand,
cracking his whip and looking at his hosses; and they said it was
a mercy as the stables didn't get burnt down wi’ the poor dumb
creaturs in 'em. But at last he died raving, and they found as
he'd left all his property, Warrens and all, to a Lunnon Charity,
and that's how the Warrens come to be Charity Land; though
as for the stables, Mr. Lammeter never uses 'em — they're out o'
all charicter — Lor bless you! if you was to set the doors a-banging
in 'em, it 'ud sound like thunder half o'er the parish. ”
"Ay, but there's more going on in the stables than what folks
see by daylight, eh, Mr. Macey ? " said the landlord.
“Ay, ay; go that way of a dark night, that's all,” said Mr.
Macey, winking mysteriously, “and then make believe, if you
like, as you didn't see lights i' the stables, nor hear the stamping
o'the hosses, nor the cracking o' the whips, and howling too, if
it's tow'rt daybreak. Cliff's Holiday' has been the name of it
ever sin’ I were a boy; that's to say, some said as it was the
holiday Old Harry gev him from roasting, like. That's what my
father told me, and he was a reasonable man, though there's
folks nowadays know what happened afore they were born better
nor they know their own business. ”
“What do you say to that, eh, Dowlas ? " said the landlord,
turning to the farrier, who was swelling with impatience for his
cue: “here's a nut for you to crack. ”
Mr. Dowlas was the negative spirit in the company, and was
proud of his position.
Say? I
say
what a
man should say as doesn't shut his
eyes to look at a finger-post. I say as I'm ready to wager any
man ten pound, if he'll stand out wi' me any dry night in the
pasture before the Warren stables, as we shall neither see lights
nor hear noises, if it isn't the blowing of our own noses. That's
what I say, and I've said it many a time; but there's nobody
'ull ventur a ten-pun' note on their ghos'es as they make so
sure of. ”
«Why, Dowlas, that's easy betting, that is,” said Ben Win-
throp. «You might as well bet a man as he wouldn't catch the
rheumatise if he stood up to 's neck in the pool of a frosty
night. It 'ud be fine fun for a man to win his bet as he'd
## p. 5390 (#566) ###########################################
5390
GEORGE ELIOT
I'd as
catch the rheumatise. Folks as believe in Cliff's Holiday aren't
a-going to ventur near it for a matter o' ten pound. ”
"If Master Dowlas wants to know the truth on it,” said Mr.
Macey, with a sarcastic smile, tapping his thumbs together, "he's
no call to lay any bet; let him go and stan' by himself - there's
nobody 'ull hinder him; and then he can let the parish'ners
know if they're wrong. ”
« Thank you! I'm obliged to you,” said the farrier, with a
snort of scorn. “If folks are fools, it's no business o' mine. I
don't want to make out the truth about ghos'es; I know it
a'ready. But I'm not against a bet — everything fair and open.
Let any man bet me ten pound as I shall see Cliff's Holiday,
and I'll go and stand by myself. I want no company.
lief do it as I'd fill this pipe. ”
“Ah, but who's to watch you, Dowlas, and see you do it?
That's no fair bet,” said the butcher.
“No fair bet ? ” replied Mr. Dowlas angrily. “I should like
to hear any man stand up and say I want to bet unfair. Come
now, Master Lundy, I should like to hear you say it. "
"Very like you would,” said the butcher.
« But it's no
business o' mine. You're none of my bargains, and I aren't
a-going to try and 'bate your price. If anybody'll bid for you
at your own vallying, let him. I'm for peace and quietness, I
am. ”
“Yes, that's what every yapping cur is, when you hold a
stick up at him," said the farrier. “But I'm afraid o' neither
man nor ghost, and I'm ready to lay a fair bet — I aren't a turn-
tail cur. ”
“Ay, but there's this in it, Dowlas,” said the landlord, speak-
ing in a tone of much candor and tolerance. « There's folks, i'
my opinion, they can't see ghos'es, not if they stood as plain as
a pike-staff before 'em. And there's reason i' that. For there's
my wife, now, can't smell, not if she'd the strongest o' cheese
under her nose. I never seed a ghost myself; but then I says
to myself, Very like I haven't got the smell for 'em. I mean,
putting a ghost for a smell, or else contrariways. And so I'm
for holding with both sides; for as I say, the truth lies between
'em. And if Dowlas was to go and stand, and say he'd never
seen a wink o' Cliff's Holiday, all the night through, I'd back
him; and if anybody said as Cliff's Holiday was certain sure for
all that, I'd back hiin too. For the smell's what I go by. ”
## p. 5391 (#567) ###########################################
GEORGE ELIOT
5391
The landlord's analogical argument was not well received by
the farrier -a man intensely opposed to compromise.
“Tut, tut,” he said setting down his glass with refreshed irri-
tation; what's the smell got to do with it? Did ever a ghost
give a man a black eye? That's what I should like to know. If
ghos'es want me to believe in 'em, let 'em leave off skulking i’
the dark and i' lone places — let 'em come where there's com-
pany and candles. »
“As if ghos'es 'ud want to be believed in by anybody so
ignorant! ” said Mr.
Macey, in deep disgust at the farrier's crass
imcompetence to apprehend the conditions of ghostly phenomena.
THE HALL FARM
From (Adam Bede)
E
VIDENTLY that gate is never opened; for the long grass and
the great hemlocks grow close against it; and if it were
opened, it is so rusty that the force necessary to turn to
on its hinges would be likely to pull down the square stone-
built pillars, to the detriment of the two stone lionesses which
grin with a doubtful carnivorous affability above coat of arms
surmounting each of the pillars. It would be easy enough, by
the aid of the nicks in the stone pillars, to climb over the brick
wall with its smooth stone coping; but by putting our eyes close
to the rusty bars of the gate, we can see the house well enough,
and all but the very corners of the grassy inclosure.
It is a very fine old place, of red brick, softened by a pale
powdery lichen, which has dispersed itself with happy irregu-
larity, so as to bring the red brick into terms of friendly com-
panionship with the limestone ornaments surrounding the three
gables, the windows, and the door-place. But the windows are
patched with wooden panes, and the door, I think, is like the
gate - it is never opened: how it would groan and grate against
the stone floor if it were! For it is a solid, heavy, handsome
door, and must once have been in the habit of shutting with a
sonorous bang behind a liveried lackey who had just seen his
master and mistress off the grounds in a carriage and pair.
But at present one might fancy the house in the early stage
of a chancery suit, and that the fruit from that grand double
## p. 5392 (#568) ###########################################
5392
GEORGE ELIOT
1
1
.
I
row of walnut-trees on the right hand of the inclosure would
fall and rot among the grass; if it were not that we heard the
booming bark of dogs echoing from great buildings at the back.
And now the half-weaned calves that have been sheltering them-
selves in a gorse-built hovel against the left-hand wall come out
and set up a silly answer to that terrible bark, doubtless suppos-
ing that it has reference to buckets of milk.
Yes, the house must be inhabited, and we will see by whom;
for imagination is a licensed trespasser: it has no fear of dogs,
but may climb over walls and peep in at windows with impunity.
Put your face to one of the glass panes in the right-hand win-
dow: what do you see? A large open fireplace, with rusty dogs
in it, and a bare boarded floor; at the far end, fleeces of wool
stacked up; in the middle of the floor, some empty corn-bags.
That is the furniture of the dining-room. And what through the
left-hand window? Several clothes-horses, a pillion, a spinning.
wheel, and an old box wide open, and stuffed full of colored
rags. At the edge of this box there lies a great wooden doll,
which so far as mutilation is concerned bears a strong resem-
blance to the finest Greek sculpture, and especially in the total
loss of its nose. Near it there is a little chair, and the butt-end
of a boy's leather long-lashed whip.
The history of the house is plain now. It was once the resi-
dence of a country squire, whose family, probably dwindling
down to mere spinsterhood, got merged in the more territorial
name of Donnithorne. It was once the Hall; it is now the Hall
Farm. Like the life in some coast town that was once a water-
ing-place, and is now a port, where the genteel streets are silent
and grass-grown, and the docks and warehouses busy and reso-
nant, the life at the Hall has changed its focus, and no longer
radiates from the parlor, but from the kitchen and the farm-yard.
Plenty of life there! though this is the drowsiest time of the
year, just before hay harvest; and it is the drowsiest time of the
day too, for it is close upon three by the sun, and it is half-past
three by Mrs. Poyser's handsome eight-day clock. But there is
always a stronger sense of life when the sun is brilliant after
rain; and now he is pouring down his beams, and making
sparkles among the wet straw, and lighting up every patch of
vivid green moss on the red tiles of the cow-shed, and turning
even the muddy water that is hurrying along the channel to the
drain into a mirror for the yellow-billed ducks, who are seizing
1
1
## p. 5393 (#569) ###########################################
GEORGE ELIOT
5393
the opportunity of getting a drink with as much body in it as
possible. There is quite a concert of noises: the great bull-dog,
chained against the stables, is thrown into furious exasperation
by the unwary approach of a cock too near the mouth of his
kennel, and sends forth a thundering bark, which is answered by
two fox-hounds shut up in the opposite cow-house; the old top-
knotted hens, scratching with their chicks among the straw, set
up a sympathetic croaking as the discomfited cock joins them;
a sow with her brood, all very muddy as to the legs, and curled
as to the tail, throws in some deep staccato notes; our friends
the calves are bleating from the home croft; and under all, a
fine ear discerns the continuous hum of human voices.
For the great barn doors are thrown wide open, and men are
busy there mending the harness under the superintendence of
Mr. Goby the "whittaw,” otherwise saddler, who entertains them
with the latest Treddleston gossip. It is certainly rather an
unfortunate day that Alick the shepherd has chosen for having
the whittaws, since the morning turned out so wet; and Mrs.
Poyser has spoken her mind pretty strongly as to the dirt which
the extra number of men's shoes brought into the house at din-
ner-time. Indeed, she has not yet recovered her equanimity on
the subject, though it is now nearly three hours since dinner
and the house floor is perfectly clean again; as clean as every.
thing else in that wonderful house-place, where the only chance
of collecting a few grains of dust would be to climb on the salt-
coffer, and put your finger on the high mantel shelf on which
the glittering brass candlesticks are enjoying their summer sin-
ecure; for at this time of year of course every one goes to bed
while it is yet light, or at least light enough to discern the out-
line of objects after you have bruised your shins against them.
Surely nowhere else could an oak clock-case and an oak table
have got to such a polish by the hand: genuine elbow polish,”
as Mrs. Poyser called it, for she thanked God she never had any
of your varnished rubbish in her house. Hetty Sorrel often took
the opportunity, when her aunt's back was turned, of looking
at the pleasing reflection of herself in those polished surfaces, for
the oak table was usually turned up like a screen, and was more
for ornament than for use; and she could see herself sometimes
in the great round pewter dishes that were ranged on the shelves
above the long deal dinner-table, or in the hobs of the grate,
which always shone like jasper.
IX--338
## p. 5394 (#570) ###########################################
5394
GEORGE ELIOT
1
Everything was looking at its brightest at this moment, for
the sun shone right on the pewter dishes, and from their reflect-
ing surfaces pleasant jets of light were thrown on mellow oak and
bright brass; — and on a still pleasanter object than these; for
some of the rays fell on Dinah's finely molded cheek, and lit
up her pale-red hair to auburn, as she bent over the heavy
household linen which she was mending for her aunt. No scene
could have been more peaceful, if Mrs. Poyser, who was ironing
a few things that still remained from the Monday's wash, had
not been making a frequent clinking with her iron, and moving
to and fro whenever she wanted it to cool; carrying the keen
glance of her blue-gray eye from the kitchen to the dairy, where
Hetty was making up the butter, and from the dairy to the
back kitchen, where Nancy was taking the pies out of the oven.
Do not suppose however that Mrs. Poyser was elderly or
shrewish in her appearance; she was a good-looking woman, not
more than eight-and-thirty, of fair complexion and sandy hair,
well-shapen, light-footed; the most conspicuous article in her
attire was an ample checkered linen apron, which almost covered
her skirt; and nothing could be plainer or less noticeable than
her cap and gown, for there was no weakness of which she was
less tolerant than feminine vanity, and the preference of orna-
ment to utility. The family likeness between her and her niece
Dinah Morris, with the contrast between her keenness and
Dinah's seraphic gentleness of expression, might have served a
painter as an excellent suggestion for a Martha and Mary. Their
eyes were just of the same color, but a striking test of the
difference in their operation was seen in the demeanor of Trip,
the black-and-tan terrier, whenever that much-suspected dog un-
warily exposed himself to the freezing arctic ray of Mrs. Poyser's
glance. Her tongue was not less keen than her eye, and when-
ever a damsel came within earshot, seemed to take up an unfin-
ished lecture, as a barrel organ takes up a tune, precisely at the
point where it had left off.
The fact that it was churning day was another reason why it
was inconvenient to have the whittaws, and why, consequently,
Mrs. Poyser should scold Molly the housemaid with unusual
severity. To all appearance Molly had got through her after-
dinner work in an exemplary manner, had “cleaned herself »
with great dispatch, and now came to ask submissively if she
should sit down to her spinning till milking-time. But this
## p. 5395 (#571) ###########################################
GEORGE ELIOT
5395
blameless conduct, according to Mrs. Poyser, shrouded a secret
indulgence of unbecoming wishes, which she now dragged forth
and held up to Molly's view with cutting eloquence.
« Spinning, indeed! It isn't spinning as you'd be at, I'll be
bound, and let you have your own way. I never knew your
equals for gallowsness. To think of a gell o' your age wanting
to go and sit with half-a-dozen men! I'd ha' been ashamed to
let the words pass over my lips if I'd been you. And you, as
have been here ever since last Michaelmas, and I hired you
at Treddles'on stattits, without a bit o' character - as I say, you
might be grateful to be hired in that way to a respectable place;
and you knew no more o' what belongs to work when you come
here than the mawkin i' the field. As poor a two-fisted thing as
ever I saw, you
know
you was.
Who taught you to scrub a
floor, I should like to know? Why, you'd leave the dirt in
heaps i' the corners - anybody 'ud think you'd never been brought
up among Christians.
And as for spinning, why you've wasted as
much as your wage i' the flax you've spoiled learning to spin.
And you've a right to feel that, and not to go about as gaping
and as thoughtless as if you was beholding to nobody. Comb
the wool for the whittaws, indeed! That's what you'd like to
be doing, is it? That's the way with you — that's the road you'd
all like to go, headlongs to ruin. You're never easy till you've
got some sweetheart as is as big a fool as yourself: you think
you'll be finely off when you're married, I dare say, and have
got a three-legged stool to sit on, and never a blanket to cover
you, and a bit o' oat-cake for your dinner, as three children are
a-snatching at. ”
“I'm sure I donna want t go wi' the whittaws,” said Molly,
whimpering, and quite overcome by this Dantean picture of her
future; «on'y we allays used to comb the wool for 'n at Mester
Ottley's, an' so I just asked ye. I donna want to set eyes on
the whittaws again; I wish I may never stir if I do. ”
“Mr. Ottley's, indeed! It's fine talking o' what you did at
Mr. Ottley's. Your missis there might like her floors dirted wi'
whittaws for what I know. There's no knowing what people
wonna like — such ways as I've heard of! I never had a gell
come into my house as seemed to know what cleaning was; I
think people live like pigs, for my part. And as to that Betty
as was dairymaid at Trent's before she come to me, she'd ha' left
the cheeses without turning from week's end to week's end; and
## p. 5396 (#572) ###########################################
5396
1
GEORGE ELIOT
1
!
1
now.
the dairy thralls, I might ha' wrote my name on 'em, when I
come down-stairs after my illness, as the doctor said it was in-
flammation — it was a mercy I got well of it. And to think o'
your knowing no better, Molly, and been here a-going i nine
months, and not for want o' talking to, neither;- and what are
you stanning there for, like a jack as is run down, instead o'
getting your wheel out ?
You're a rare un for sitting down to
your work a little while after it's time to put by. ”
Munny, my iron's twite told; pease put it down to warm. ”
The small chirruping voice that uttered this request came from
a little sunny-haired girl between three and four, who, seated on
a high chair at the end of the ironing-table, was arduously
clutching the handle of a miniature iron with her tiny fat fist,
and ironing rags with an assiduity that required her to put her
little red tongue out as far as anatomy would allow.
“Cold, is it, my darling? Bless your sweet face! ” said Mrs.
Poyser, who was remarkable for the facility with which she could
relapse from her official objurgatory to one of fondness or of
friendly converse. Never mind! Mother's done her ironing
She's going to put the ironing things away. ”
"Munny, I tould 'ike to do into de barn to Tommy, to see
de whittawd. ”
"No, no, no; Totty 'ud get her feet wet,” said Mrs. Poyser,
carrying away her iron. “Run into the dairy and see Cousin
Hetty make the butter. ”
“I tould like a bit of pum-take,” rejoined Totty, who seemed
to be provided with several relays of requests; at the same time
taking the opportunity of her momentary leisure to put her
fingers into a bowl of starch and drag it down so as to empty
the contents with tolerable completeness on to the ironing-sheet.
“Did ever anybody see the like ? " screamed Mrs. Poyser, run-
ning towards the table when her eye had fallen on the blue
stream. “The child's allays i' mischief if your back's turned a
minute. What shall I do to you, you naughty, naughty gell? ”
Totty, however, had descended from her chair with great swift-
ness, and was already in retreat towards the dairy with a sort of
waddling run, and an amount of fat on the nape of her neck
which made her look like the metamorphosis of a white sucking
pig.
The starch having been wiped up by Molly's help, and the
ironing apparatus put by, Mrs. Poyser took up her knitting,
## p. 5397 (#573) ###########################################
GEORGE ELIOT
5397
Ah! your
which always lay ready at hand and was the work she liked best,
because she could carry it on automatically as she walked to and
fro. But now she came and sat down opposite Dinah, whom she
looked at in a meditative way, as she knitted her gray worsted
stocking
“You look th' image o' your Aunt Judith, Dinah, when you
sit a-sewing. I could almost fancy it was thirty years back, and
I was a little gell at home, looking at Judith as she sat at her
work after she'd done the house up; only it was a little cottage,
father's was, and not a big rambling house as gets dirty i one
corner as fast as you clean it in another; but for all that I could
fancy you was your Aunt Judith, only her hair was a deal darker
than yours, and she was stouter and broader i' the shoulders.
Judith and me allays hung together, though she had such queer
ways, but your mother and her never could agree.
mother little thought as she'd have a daughter just cut out after
the very pattern of Judith, and leave her an orphan too, for Judith
to take care on, and bring up with a spoon when she was in the
grave-yard at Stoniton. I allays said that o' Judith, as she'd bear
a pound weight any day to save anybody else carrying a ounce.
And she was just the same from the first o' my remembering
her; it made no difference in her, as I could see, when she took
to the Methodists, only she talked a bit different, and wore a
different sort o' cap; but she'd never in her life spent a penny
on herself more than keeping herself decent. ”
“She was a blessed woman,” said Dinah: "God had given her
a loving, self-forgetting nature, and he perfected it by grace.
And she was very fond of you too, Aunt Rachel. I've often
heard her talk of you in the same sort of way. When she had
that bad illness, and I was only eleven years old, she used to say,
(You'll have a friend on earth in your Aunt Rachel, if I'm taken
from you; for she has a kind heart;' and I'm sure I've found
it so. ”
“I don't know how, child; anybody 'ud be cunning to do any-
thing for you, I think; you're like the birds o'th' air, and live
nobody knows how. I'd ha' been glad to behave to you like a
mother's sister, if you'd come and live i' this country, where
there's some shelter and victual for man and beast, and folks
don't live on the naked hills, like poultry a-scratching on a gravel
bank. And then you might get married to some decent man,
and there'd be plenty ready to have you, if you'd only leave off
## p. 5398 (#574) ###########################################
5398
GEORGE ELIOT
that preaching, as is ten times worse than anything your Aunt
Judith ever did. And even if you'd marry Seth Bede, as is a
poor wool-gathering Methodist, and's never like to have a penny
beforehand, I know your uncle 'ud help you with a pig, and very
like a cow, for he's allays been good-natur'd to my kin, for all
they're poor, and made 'em welcome to the house; and 'ud do
for you, I'll be bound, as much as ever he'd do for Hetty, though
she's his own niece. And there's linen in the house as I could
well spare you, for I've got lots o' sheeting, and table-clothing,
and toweling, as isn't made up. There's a piece o' sheeting I
could give you as that squinting Kitty spun — she was a rare girl
to spin, for all she squinted and the children couldn't abide her;
and you know the spinning's going on constant, and there's new
linen wove twice as fast as the old wears out. But where's the
use o' talking, if ye wonna be persuaded, and settle down like
any other woman in her senses, . i'stead o' wearing yourself out
with walking and preaching, and giving away every penny you
get, so as you've nothing saved against sickness; and all the things
you've got i' the world, I verily believe, 'ud go into a bundle no
bigger nor a double cheese. And all because you've got notions
i' your head about religion more nor what's i' the Catechism and
the Prayer-book. ”
“But not more than what's in the Bible, Aunt,” said Dinah.
“Yes, and the Bible too, for that matter,” Mrs. Poyser re-
joined rather sharply; "else why shouldn't them as know best
what's in the Bible — the parsons and people as have got
nothing to do but learn it — do the same as you do? But for
the matter o’that, if everybody was to do like you, the world
must come to a standstill; for if everybody tried to do without
house and home, and with poor eating and drinking, and was
allays talking as we must despise the things o' the world, as you
say, I should like to know where the pick o' the stock, and the
corn, and the best new-milk cheeses 'ud have to go. Everybody
'ud be wanting bread made o' tail ends, and everybody 'ud be
running after everybody else to preach to 'em, istead o' bring-
ing up their families, and laying by against a bad harvest. It
stands to sense as that can't be the right religion. ”
“Nay, dear Aunt, you never heard me say that all people
are called to forsake their work and their families.
It's quite
right the land should be plowed and sowed, and the precious
corn stored, and the things of this life cared for, and right that
## p. 5399 (#575) ###########################################
GEORGE ELIOT
5399
people should rejoice in their families, and provide for them; so
that this is done in the fear of the Lord, and that they are not
unmindful of the soul's wants while they are caring for the body.
We can all be servants of God wherever our lot is cast, but he
gives us different sorts of work, according as he fits us for it and
calls us to it. I can no more help spending my life in trying to
do what I can for the souls of others, than you could help run-
ning if you heard little Totty crying at the other end of the
house; the voice would go to your heart, you would think the
dear child was in trouble or in danger, and you couldn't rest
without running to help her and comfort her. ”
“Ah,” said Mrs. Poyser, rising and walking towards the door,
“I know it ’ud be just the same if I was to talk to you for
hours. You'd make me the same answer, at th' end. I might as
well talk to the running brook, and tell it to stan' still. ”
The causeway outside the kitchen door was dry enough now
for Mrs. Poyser to stand there quite pleasantly and see what was
going on in the yard, the gray worsted stocking making a steady
progress in her hands all the while. But she had not been
standing there more than five minutes before she came in again,
and said to Dinah in rather a flurried, awe-stricken tone: -
“If there isn't Captain Donnithorne and Mr. Irwine a-coming
into the yard! I'll lay my life they're come to speak about your
preaching on the Green, Dinah; it's you must answer 'em, for
I'm dumb. I've said enough a'ready about your bringing such
disgrace upo' your uncle's family. I wouldn't ha' minded if
you'd been Mr. Poyser's own niece — folks must put up wi’ their
own kin, as they put up wi' their own noses; it's their own flesh
and blood. But to think of a niece o' mine being cause o' my
husband's being turned out of his farm, and me brought him no
fortin but my savins — ”
"Nay, dear Aunt Rachel,” said Dinah gently, "you've no
cause for such fears. I've strong assurance that no evil will
happen to you and my uncle and the children from anything
I've done. I didn't preach without direction. ”
<Direction! I know very well what you mean by direction,”
said Mrs. Poyser, knitting in a rapid and agitated manner.
“When there's a bigger maggot than usial in your head you call
it direction’; and then nothing can stir you — you look like the
statty o' the outside o' Treddles'on church, a-starin' and a-smilin'
whether it's fair weather or foul. I hanna common patience with
you. ”
## p. 5400 (#576) ###########################################
5400
GEORGE ELIOT
!
1
By this time the two gentlemen had reached the palings and
had got down from their horses: it was plain they meant to
come in. Mrs. Poyser advanced to the door to meet them, curt-
seying low, and trembling between anger with Dinah and anx-
iety to conduct herself with perfect propriety on the occasion.
For in those days the keenest of bucolic minds felt a whispering
awe at the sight of the gentry, such as of old men felt when
they stood on tiptoe to watch the gods passing by in tall human
shape.
“Well, Mrs. Poyser, how are you after this stormy morning ? »
said Mr. Irwine with his stately cordiality. “Our feet are quite
dry; we shall not soil your beautiful floor. ”
“Oh, sir, don't mention it,” said Mrs. Poyser. “Will you and
the captain please to walk into the parlor ? »
“No, indeed, thank you, Mrs. Poyser,” said the captain, look-
ing eagerly round the kitchen, as if his eye were seeking some-
thing it could not find. "I delight in your kitchen. I think it
is the most charming room I know. I should like every farmer's
wife to come and look at it for a pattern. "
"Oh, you're pleased to say so, sir. Pray take a seat,” said
Mrs. Poyser, relieved a little by this compliment and the captain's
evident good-humor, but still glancing anxiously at Mr. Irwine,
who she saw was looking at Dinah and advancing towards her.
Poyser is not at home, is he? ” said Captain Donnithorne,
seating himself where he could see along the short passage to
the open dairy door.
“No, sir, he isn't; he's gone to Rosseter to see Mr. West, the
factor, about the wool. But there's father i' the barn, sir, if
he'd be of any use. ”
"No, thank you; I'll just look at the whelps and leave a
message about them with your shepherd. I must come another
day and see your husband; I want to have a consultation with
him about horses. Do you know when he's likely to be at
liberty ? ”
"Why, sir, you can hardly miss him, except it's o' Treddles’on
market-day — that's of a Friday, you know. For if he's any-
where on the farm we can send for him in a minute. If we'd
got rid of the Scantlands we should have no outlying fields; and
I should be glad of it, for if ever anything happens he's sure to
be gone to the Scantlands. Things allays happen so contrairy, if
they've a chance; and it's an unnat'ral thing to have one bit o'
your farm in one county and all the rest in another. »
1
## p. 5401 (#577) ###########################################
GEORGE ELIOT
5401
“Ah, the Scantlands would go much better with Choyce's
farm, especially as he wants dairy land and you've got plenty. I
think yours is the prettiest farm on the estate, though; and do
you know, Mrs. Poyser, if I were going to marry and settle, I
should be tempted to turn you out, and do up this fine old
house, and turn farmer myself. ”
“Oh, sir,” said Mrs. Poyser, rather alarmed, "you wouldn't
like it at all. As for farming, it's putting money into your
pocket wi' your right hand and fetching it out wi' your left. As
fur as I can see, it's raising victual for other folks, and just get-
ting a mouthful for yourself and your children as you go along:
Not as you'd be like a poor man as wants to get his bread: you
could afford to lose as much money as you liked i’ farming; but
it's poor fun losing money, I should think, though I understan'
it's what the great folks i' London play at more than anything.
